Saturday, 24 July 2010


Thursday night heralded our first ever work's night out and we managed to all get into work the next day unscathed if not a little tired and hungover. It's been a bad week work-wise as we've moved offices which brought out the grumpiness in most of us when crates went missing and computers and phones were left unconnected. Good job then that the Social Secretary of the Foo-Foo Club (ie. me) had arranged a night out as a welcome distraction. The local Italian restaurant provided our meeting point and the suitably impressive £7.95 for a 3 course special. There was a group of teenage girls in the bar area on our arrival chattering and giggling in that decibel range only achieved by 13 year old girls. After a few minutes of having to lip read my work colleagues' conversations, I leaned over the bar and asked the owner he if would be a good fellow and not sit us within a 50 yard range of those bloody annoying, loud and obviously spoilt little gobshites. Thinking he'd agree with my mature and thoroughly researched viewpoint of my reasonable request, imagine my consternation when Luigi told me that one of these gobshites was his daughter and the rest were her friends. I sat down, pulled the menu up to cover my face and vowed never to open my big fat gob for the rest of the evening. I'm sure there was a taste of soap in my pizza. 
After a really good meal with the usual innuendo swapping over the huge pepper mill with the waiters, we ambled our way down to a local bar where we would be entertained by a superb local band. First round of drinks in and we found a corner spot with a bit of room where our dance routines could be showcased to their best ability. And boy were they showcased. Unfortunately, as the band played, the bar became more packed and the temperature rose even more. Why can't bars invest in some air conditioning? It was hot, hot hot. 
The night reached dizzy heights with one of our group dancing in the style of Louie Spence meets poledancer. All the wares were displayed using the bar as a prop for the amusement of the young barman trying to fix our drinks. And then the inevitable happened... the youngest nurse amongst our group was hit on by a young boy-band looking German sailor called Herman. Herman the German - priceless. They swapped 15 minutes of small talk and then she nonchalantly slunk over to tell us she was 'going outside for a snog'. Ten minutes later, they sheepishly walk back in, Herman wanders over to his German Navy friends and Foo-Foo L returns to us claiming the snog-fest had been a disaster - Herman had asked for a bunk-up in the bushes of the car park. Classy nein? He glanced over in that 'Fraulein, my bratwurst needs some loving, nein? but our young intrepid nurse was having none of it, concentrating her efforts instead on her double vodka, blackcurrant and soda. 
I got to bed ridiculously late and struggled like mad the next day at work. 

The next night out is in planning stages. Watch this space for the Foo-Foo Club's next outing...

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